


Break the Ice

by YouRunWithTheWolves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Blow Jobs, Cold, Cuddling & Snuggling, Frottage, Hypothermia, M/M, Monster of the Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouRunWithTheWolves/pseuds/YouRunWithTheWolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets hit by a spell that makes him extra super duper cold. He needs constant heat to survive until someone finds a cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> I realize I've written a Cuddle or Die fic and I'm very sorry. It's all very silly, don't judge me. My precious Chi and Suzieblue indulged me and agreed to be my betas. Bless them.

 

 

 

> **Break the ice;** _Idiom_. To initiate social interactions and conversation, to get something started. Attempt at friendship.

 

 

 

 

“Stiles, holy crap, are you okay?”

Scott paws at him uselessly, panic creeping into his voice. “Where did it go? What did it do to him? Lydia!”

Stiles is frozen in place, lying like a dead fish on the lacrosse field behind the school. He opens his mouth to say something but every sound dies in his mouth, as if turning to ice and clogging his throat.

Stiles can barely feel anything else, his teeth are chattering and his fingers are closed into tight fists. What was he thinking?

What was he thinking chasing that thing around?

Stiles is really glad it was just the three of them--him, Lydia and Scott, because if Derek was here, Stiles wouldn’t hear the end of it and he doesn’t need that kind of negativity in his life.

Scott is worried. His hands are on his arms, and on his chest, reassuring, just like his voice. The creature they tracked down behind the school was too fast and too small for Scott to catch. It was no bigger than a toddler and looked like it was simultaneously solid, liquid and vaporous. It moved seamlessly and fast, its body becoming in turns solid as ice, misty and impalpable, or sometimes watery, its little feet pounding the earth with a squelchy sound. Its voice--or the sound coming out of its mouth, at least--was shrill and high-pitched when it turned toward Stiles, who was right behind it. It raised one little bluish hand in his direction and Stiles flew backwards, landing on his back.

The cold feeling was instantaneous, and now he’s just lying there, numb, his body shaking with uncontrollable shivers.

Lydia kneels beside him; she glances at his face, locks eyes with him for a second. “His lips are blue, we have to warm him up. I’ll go get the car, do what you can to get some warmth back in his limbs,” she says, voice pitched lower than usual. She’s panicking.

She leaves with one last squeeze around Stiles’s numb shoulder. He tries to speak again. But he can’t feel his lips or his tongue and he just splutters pathetically. He tries to move his right hand, only to realize it’s already closed around Scott’s shirt.

“I f-f-f-feel lik-k-k-ke a--,” he tries, pausing between his words, “p-p-p-pop--”

“A popsicle, yeah, I bet,” Scott interrupts him with a tight smile, rubbing his hands along his arms forcefully, trying to chase away the cold with an aggressive sort of petting gesture. “You look more like a Smurf right now, though.”

Stiles feels himself shake harder, this time from being jostled from side to side as Scott rubs all the warmth he can back under his skin. Stiles is pretty sure it’s useless. Obviously his blood turned to ice, it’s too late. He tries not to panic but it’s getting hard to breathe.

The rocking movements Scott creates in the process somehow lull Stiles to sleep and he closes his eyes. A second later he gasps awake, the sound of tires against concrete jerking him out of his imaginary ice bed. Scott wastes no time and hoists him up across his shoulder. Stiles whines, his stomach digging into Scott’s shoulder with every step. He feels like every breath he’s losing will never come back.

He’s flung across the backseat and he groans. Lydia’s turned the heater on and the contrast between his frozen body and what would be in other circumstances the pleasant warmth of the car, makes him choke on air. His lungs are burning and he curls into himself, as if he can contain the fire burning him from the inside out--or maybe use it to his advantage to warm up. He takes a necessary second to internally whine about the paradox that makes a body feel like burning when really it’s freezing. Scott follows him in the car soon after. He tugs his t-shirt over his head and Stiles tightens his arms around himself when Scott tries to do the same to Stiles’s shirt and under-shirt.

“Stiles! Let go, we have to warm you up, I’m not kidding,” Scott pleads, as if the logic thing to do when someone is cold is to get them naked. He bats Stiles’s fingers away. Stiles feels like if Scott gets too rough then he’ll snap one off, like icicles.

Even when Stiles decides, between one bone-deep shudder and the next, to let Scott manhandle him, he finds that he can’t move his hands.

“No, no, don’t do the body heat thing,” Lydia says, already throwing the car into gear. “I’m not sure that--,” she pauses, clicks her tongue and tries again, “we can’t actively warm him up, he’s in severe hypothermia. Cover him up, keep the cold away.”

Lydia is speeding away, Stiles knows, back to her place. Her house is always almost empty; her father constantly on business trips and her mother actually home only one or two days a week.

So nowadays, there’s always a pack member on her couch, in her kitchen or on her bed. Well, Allison is the only one allowed on her bed, really. Isaac still avoids the entire first floor after she threw him out that one time he plopped down on the mattress with his shoes on, feet propped up on her pillow.

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s drifted off to sleep until he wakes up to the soft and musical sound of Scott being screamed at by Lydia. He has no idea if it’s been a few seconds or ten minutes. He’d panic if he had the energy to do so. His vision is blurry and he’s not sure where they are.

“Is he still shivering? Scott? Did he fall asleep?”

“I don’t--I’m doing my best, here!” Scott snaps back from the backseat. “You try warming someone up without actively warming them up!”

Stiles can’t move, but this time it’s only because a mountain of clothes is piled up over him. His breathing is still weak, but he feels minutely better. Scott is next to him, shirtless.

“What’re y’doing?” Stiles slurs, sounding muffled under his cold-proof fort. “You’re inde-indecent.”

“How are you feeling? Are you still cold?” Scott asks, ignoring his playful comment.

Before Stiles can tell him the improvement is only minimal, Lydia brakes abruptly and scrambles out of the car. “Get him inside, I’ll go get all the blankets I can find.”

“‘We here alr’dy?” Stiles mumbles, hugging himself so tight his muscles are hurting.

Scott manhandles him out of the car, inside the house and on the couch, plastered to his side. Stiles soaks up his warmth. Lydia comes back breathless, and dumps one large and soft blanket on Stiles, curled up around Scott’s naked side. It almost hurts to be this close to a heat source.

“Why don’t we run him a warm bath,” Scott says. Stiles can almost hear the frown in his voice. He’s also one hundred percent sure if they try to dump him in hot water he’ll actually cook like a lobster.

“I’m not a freaking expert, Scott,” Lydia snaps. Stiles makes a pathetic sound on purpose and it has the desired effect. She mellows and plops down next to him on the couch too, so he’s sandwiched between the two of them. “I’m sorry, I’m just worried… I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she finally adds, addressing Scott. “The difference between his skin temperature and the heat of the water would burn him. He needs to warm up on his own.”

“We can help, though,” Scott says, earnest as ever, nothing in his tone indicating he might be mad at Lydia for her outburst. Stiles hugs him tighter under the ridiculous amount of Scott’s discarded clothes and Lydia’s fluffy blankets.

His aching muscles are relaxing minutely, and his body is not shaken with tremors as often as before. Lydia pets his hair uselessly and sighs.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Let’s go upstairs to my bedroom, we’ll be more comfortable.”

Scott smiles down at Stiles and helps him up, keeping all the blankets around him, which makes his movements difficult.

“You look positively ridiculous,” Lydia scoffs, from up the stairs.

“Shut up, I’m dying,” Stiles replies petulantly, swaying dangerously on the steps. Scott is there to steady him.

They finally reach Lydia’s bed and before he can throw himself in it, she tuts.

“Nuh-uh. Shed all this crap,” she says, gesturing impatiently at Stiles’s cocoon of warmth. “The three of us will get under the giant blanket. Our body heat will be enough. Ugh, we’ll be cooped up in there, but it’ll probably be very comfy for your frozen body.”

Scott tugs obediently at the blankets Stiles is wrapped in, and he reluctantly lets him. The chill in the room gets to him immediately, but he knows it’s only him because Scott is still freaking shirtless and looks like he’s fine with it.

“Take off your shirt, you can cuddle with Scott. You’ve warmed up a little, it should be alright,” Lydia orders, arranging the bed to her liking.

Stiles looks at Scott pleadingly. “I’m too cold, don’t take my shirt,” he whines, hugging himself to fight another wave of chills.

Scott forces him to uncross his arms and wrestles him out of it. Stiles bitches and fights as much as he can, but he ends up tackled to the bed.

“Ooh, Scott, I do de-declare!” Stiles groans breathlessly from under Scott’s weight. “Are you going to make an honest man out of me?”

Scott rolls his eyes hard enough Stiles is convinced it must have hurt.

Lydia throws the fluffiest blanket on the both of them and Stiles stops struggling at once. It feels like they’re in a camping tent that just collapsed. None of their extremities are out of the duvet. The heat settles safely around him, and he sighs.

“So how do you wanna do this?” Scott asks, leaning above him on an elbow.

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, a very dirty joke on the tip of his tongue, but a squawk comes out instead when Lydia lifts up one corner of the blanket to slide underneath with them. The cold seeps in for a second before she lets it fall back behind her.

“I’ll spoon your scrawny ass,” she grunts, annoyed. “Scott can be the other side of the sandwich.”

She snakes an arm around his waist and if his skin wasn’t so numb he’s sure it would have tickled. Her front is now flush against his back and he can’t help the little sigh of contentment he lets out. He grips her hand, splayed on his bare stomach and squeezes.

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs, still in that begrudgingly fond tone, “the things I do for you guys, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Scott scoots closer with his lips twisted in a lopsided smile and lets Stiles bury his face in his neck. Scott’s arm cages him in between their two bodies as it reaches Lydia behind him.

“So, can we talk about that ugly little thing, now?” Lydia whispers, as people do when it’s silent and dark, even when there’s no one to awaken. “It did something to Stiles.”

Her breath tickles the back of his neck.

“Like a curse,” Scott nods.

“We have to catch it. What if it hurts someone else?”

“Maybe Derek knows what it was,” Scott whispers.

Stiles groans. Scott shushes him and Lydia hits him lightly on his chest, where her hand is resting.

The two of them talk back and forth for a while, but Stiles stops listening as he drifts off to sleep, snuffling and nuzzling at the base of Scott’s neck. Their body heat seeps into him and even as his whole body aches from being so stiff all this time, he lets their whispered words envelop him as he falls asleep.

 

*

 

Stiles wakes up alone, body shaking and muscles tensing. He whines, exhausted. He’s cold again, although not as much as before. He has no idea how much time passed between now and his cuddle sandwich session with Scott and Lydia. He warily lifts up a corner of the blanket and peeks his head out of it. The difference of temperature between the room and under the covers is too much and he ducks his head back underneath his makeshift safe haven. He groans, another helpless shudder coursing through him; he’s getting goose-flesh.

“Stiles?”

“Allison!” he exclaims from under the covers. “What are you--where’s Scott? Lydia?”

“They had to leave to catch the thing that did this to you. Isaac and I are here to--” she pauses, and Stiles hates that he can’t see her face, “to help,” she finishes awkwardly.

Stiles is not as comfortable with the idea of cuddling someone when he knows it’s not Scott. He rubs his arms absently and it doesn’t do much.

“Ok, so--I’ll come in,” Allison says warily, as though she’s afraid she’ll spook him.

The left-hand corner of the blanket lifts up and Allison ducks under it. She’s wearing her day-clothes.

“Quickly, quickly,” Stiles hisses, feeling all the warmth leaving the blanket dome. He gestures widely at her and tugs at her arm a little. She tumbles awkwardly next to him. “Where’s Isaac?” he asks when they both settle to lie on their backs, side by side.

“I’m here,” comes Isaac’s drawl from above them. “Do I have to do this?”

“Isaac,” Allison chastises, frowning at the blanket as though she can glare at him through it. “Do you want him to freeze to death?”

Stiles hugs himself tighter, feeling absurdly vulnerable. “It’s not like I want to snuggle up with you either, Lahey,” he grumbles, voice unsteady. His jaw is stiff and he can feel his teeth clacking.

Allison turns on her side and throws an arm over Stiles’s chest.

“You should probably wear something,” she says gingerly. “Brrr, it’s like you’re made of ice. Jesus.”

Isaac groans and joins them a second later, much more quickly than Allison did, and settles against Stiles so that, once again, he’s in the middle.

“Here,” he says, piling a sweater on Stiles’s stomach. “Put this on. I’m not getting shirtless. I’ve had my share of getting up close with ice cubes, thank you very much.”

With jerky, clumsy movements, Stiles manages to put on the sweater before flopping back down on his back. Allison helps him tug the front of it so it covers his stomach, and she ends up smoothing the wrinkles absentmindedly, as Stiles twists his neck to glare at Isaac.

“Hey, I experienced the Deaton Ice Bath Treatment too, okay?”

“Good,” Isaac says, unperturbed, “so you know what I’m talking about.” After a slight pause, he adds, “And I don’t like confined spaces.”

“Are you feeling better?” Allison asks, quickly steering the conversation away from that subject.

Stiles harrumphs, mournfully thinking back to Scott’s blessedly warm skin and Lydia’s willingness to spoon him. Allison is barely hugging him with one arm, and Isaac isn’t even touching him at all.

“So, do you know what did this to me?” he asks instead of answering.

“Not really. Deaton thinks it’s a sort of ice creature, a--what did he call it?” She lifts her head to peer at Isaac.

“A sprite.”

“Yeah, that. Anyway, Lydia doesn’t think it’s evil.”

“Are they going after it now?”

Allison sounds bitter when she answers, “Yeah, Scott is convinced Lydia attracts it, somehow, so he took her with him. He said he didn’t want to kill it, just catch it--so my crossbow is useless or someth--”

“Why would it be attracted to Lydia?” Stiles interrupts, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves.

Isaac shrugs. “Apparently the sprite is quite interested in her Banshee magic thing.”

Stiles hums, thinking about how the creature had been chasing Lydia before Stiles had attacked it to lure it away from her.

“We still don’t know what that entails for her,” Allison says in a quiet voice, “to be a Banshee. Maybe she can attract other supernatural creatures?”

Isaac sighs and finally scoots closer to Stiles. “And now, we’re stuck here, on Stiles duty.”

“Fuck off,” Stiles retorts, trying not lean against his body too much.

Allison snorts. “I wouldn’t have said that like that, but he’s right. If I could, I’d be out there, helping. I’m a hunter. I hunt things down. It’s literally what I do, and I’m good at it. And maybe you’d already be cured.” She pats his stomach.

“Yeah, well it was very small. Almost incorporeal, you know. I don’t know how they will catch it. It’s fast and it changes substance every second, when it’s threatened,” Stiles says, closing his eyes.

“One more reason to be out there and help,” she insists.

Stiles sighs; she’s probably right. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay, you can go--Isaac will have to deal--”

Allison smiles just as Isaac squawks. “I’m not staying here alone with you. If Allison is going, then so am I.”

“Okay, fine! Then leave me here to die! What do I care!” Stiles exclaims, feeling almost better when his little outburst leaves him pleasantly flushed and heated.

Isaac sighs, put upon. “I can call Boyd. He’s _huge_. He can cuddle with you.”

Allison is already scrambling out of the blankets excitedly. “I promise I’ll be back before you know it, Stiles,” her voice comes muffled through the covers.

“Boyd hates me,” Stiles says with a wince.

“He doesn’t exactly _love_ you,” Isaac corrects. “But then, neither do I, and look at me!” He gestures at his stupidly long body lying next to Stiles.

“Just put a heater under the covers,” Allison says. Stiles can hear her fumbling to put her shoes on.

“It won’t work, there’s a security thing on these things now,” Stiles replies immediately, when Isaac’s face lights up. “When it’s covered by something, it overheats and shuts down.”

Isaac groans. “Fine,” he whines, dragging out the syllable unnecessarily. “I’ll stay.”

 

*

 

An hour later, Stiles has run out of ideas to make conversation with Isaac.

“How about we play I Spy?” Isaac asks, voice flat, lifting a hand to shake the blanket above their two bodies. “We have such a great view under there. So many options.”

Stiles doesn't miss a beat. “Great idea,” he snarks. “I spy, with my little eye… a giant butthole.”

Isaac looks at him with a straight face. “Is it you?”

“Ugh!” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “You spend way too much time with Derek.”

Isaac stills beside him, and for a second, Stiles is worried he’s gone too far, and that comparing him to his alpha is a bigger insult than he thought. But Isaac grins at him, delighted. He kicks the blankets off him, ignoring Stiles’s protests, who desperately gathers them back around his body. He keeps his head out, this time, to continue yelling at Isaac.

“What are you doing? Come back here!” But his screams turn panicked and worried. “Who--what are you doing? Who are you calling? Isaac, you motherfucker--I’m not kidding, if you’re doing what I think you’re doing, then you’re gonna wish you weren’t doing what you’re doing!”

Isaac steps away from the bed, knowing perfectly well Stiles can’t follow. He takes a deep breath, holding his phone next to his ear. “Oh God, I thought I was going to die under there,” he huffs, gesturing disdainfully at Stiles’s beloved life-blankets. “Derek, hey dude,” he says suddenly into the phone. “Listen. Stiles is dying, you need to get to Lydia’s--pronto.”

“Isaac,” Stiles drops his voice to a hiss, now that the phone connection has been established. “I will hurt you, I swear--”

“Yeah, everyone’s out there looking for the thing that attacked him. And they need me--”

“Lies! Liar!” This time, Stiles shouts, hoping Derek will hear his protests.

Isaac only frowns before lifting a condescending finger at him, like a businessman bothered by an eager assistant in a serious political movie. Stiles is so offended he shuts up.

“I can’t explain everything, man. Just get here, we don’t have time! Stiles is _dying_ ,” Isaac goes on. The little shit is a good actor.

Stiles groans loudly and thumps his feet angrily against the mattress like a toddler, feeling powerless. He still feels weak and exhausted after sleeping so little and his body temperature is still unsteady at best.

“Listen, I gotta go, Scott needs me,” Isaac says, louder, probably talking over Derek. And he hangs up, satisfied.

He has the decency to look a bit apologetic when he looks back at Stiles, at least.

“In what world,” Stiles begins in a calm, steady voice, “is calling Derek a better idea than calling Boyd? Have you met Derek? Have you met _me_?”

“I gotta go,” Isaac says, shrugging.

“Yes, get the fuck out. I don’t want to see your face anymore, you traitor.”

Isaac pauses at the door, a little hunched over to make his tall frame appear a little smaller. He buries his hands in his pockets. “Derek won’t let you freeze to death, okay? I scared him enough. He’s probably breaking every speed limit to get here.”

Stiles stares determinedly at the ceiling. “Whatever.”

 

*

 

Stiles hates to admit it, but Isaac’s right. Only ten minutes after he leaves, Stiles almost jumps out of bed when he hears the front door crash open, Derek anxiously calling for him. _Anxiously_.

Stiles pauses, perplexed, before calling back, “Up here! Derek, I’m alright! I’m in Lydia’s--”

The bedroom door flies open, and Derek comes in, chest heaving and eyes darting around the room, searching for an eventual threat.

“--bed,” Stiles finishes lamely, a little subdued when faced with Derek’s worried expression.

Derek is a little breathless, but he turns on his heels to face Stiles, still cocooned in Lydia’s bed. He doesn't say anything, but the little shrug he gives, coupled with the way he turns his palms up, opening his arms at their very not dangerous surroundings, is enough for Stiles to understand the “what the fuck” implied.

“Okay, so before you say anything,” Stiles says, pausing to hug the life out of the blanket when another violent shudder makes him clench his jaw, “none of this was my fault.”

“You always say that and somehow it’s always kinda your fault,” Derek says without any hesitation. In the same breath he asks, bewildered, “Are you _naked_ under this?”

“What? No!”

“What--?”

“I’m _cold_ , just cold! A little shit did a magicky thing and bam! Right in the chest. Something hit me and now I can’t--stop--fucking--”

“You can’t stop fucking?” Derek says, looking even more confused.

“-- _shivering_!” Stiles finishes, outraged.

It’s like Derek _wants_ Stiles to be in some sort of awkward sexual situation. Seriously.

Derek takes a step forward. “Why didn’t you call me?” he says, anger seeping back into his voice.

Stiles stares at him and tries to look as flippant as he can when wrapped in a multi-colored pile of blankets. “Are you shitting me? I just did. That’s why you’re here.”

“ _Isaac_ called me,” Derek snaps. “After it all went down! What was that thing? What did it do?”

“Scott and I were chasing it--”

Derek clicks his tongue and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rolling his eyes. “Of course you were.”

“To help Lydia! The thing--the sprite was after her, for some reason. It’s an ice creature of some kind. Very small. Looks kinda cute, until it hits you square in the chest with a--a spell or some shit like that. So I’m--” He takes a deep breath and buries his cold nose in the duvet. “I’m so cold I could cry little ice cubes, right now,” he says, rather pathetically.

“I’ll help them find it,” Derek says after a beat, already moving toward the door.

“Not you too!” Stiles yells, desperate. “Are you that much of an asshole that you’re going to let me freeze to death?”

Derek seems to be momentarily paralyzed. He looks at the door and back at Stiles a ridiculous amount of times before he huffs and takes his leather jacket off. He looks murderous when he says, “I’m going down to the kitchen to bring you back something. Is tea alright?”

Stiles blinks away his surprise. “Uhm, yeah okay.” And a little belatedly, he adds, “Thanks,” just as Derek leaves the room.

 

*

 

“Gimme, gimme,” Stiles whines a few minutes later, straightening up on the bed, still wrapped in his cocoon.

“You can have the soup until the tea cools down a bit,” Derek states firmly before handing him the bowl and setting the tea on the nightstand. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“Too ‘ate,” Stiles says, around the fire burning his tongue, his throat and his entire trachea. He takes another spoonful immediately when the heat settles low in his stomach.

Derek watches him swallow the soup to the last drop with an expression of mild disgust on his face. He takes the bowl away from him and sets it down on Lydia’s desk. Stiles burps--loudly, and on purpose. Derek closes his eyes slowly, as if the mere sight of him is too much to keep his calm. It probably is.

Good.

Stiles feels a bit better. He tentatively ventures a hand out of his blanket fort to reach for the tea. He cradles the drink in his hands, absorbing the heat through his frighteningly white frozen fingers.

“So?” Derek says, instead of asking if Stiles is feeling any better, like a normal person.

Stiles shrugs, pressing the cup against his nose to warm it up. “It won’t last long. I need constant warmth. And I’ll probably need to pee in half an hour.”

Derek sits down on the edge of the bed. “Well how did you manage until now? To keep warm, I mean,” he asks, annoyed.

“Scott and Lydia spooned me until I fell asleep. Then, Isaac and Allison did their absolute best to keep me warm… which turned out to be a very flimsy best, if you want my opinion. Zero out of ten, would not cuddle again.”

Derek drops his head in hands, elbows propped on his knees. “God dammit,” he sighs, accepting his fate.

“You’ll have to be shirtless,” Stiles says viciously, just to infuriate him even more. “Body heat, you know.”

Derek doesn’t make a sound, face still hidden behind his hands. Then, like he’s reacting to a cue only he can hear or see, he jumps up from the bed and yanks his Henley off himself--not unlike he had done months ago in Stiles’s bedroom, when Danny had come to do homework and ended up ogling Derek’s body instead. Stiles is so surprised by the sudden movement that he startles. Some of his tea sloshes out of the cup and splashes on Isaac’s sweater.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Derek declares, more serious than ever.

“You made me spill my tea,” Stiles replies flatly.

“Take the sweater off and move over,” Derek says, uncaring. He sits on the edge of the bed and undoes his belt.

Stiles feels his hands shake a bit when he sets the mug next to his empty bowl. He strips off the oversized sweater and drags himself reluctantly to the right to leave some space to Derek. He hisses at the cold sheets as he leaves his warmed up spot.

Derek throws his jeans aside, takes a deep breath and scoots next to Stiles under the blankets.

Stiles feels compelled to say something. “Scott kept his pants, you know.” Derek’s body heat is already making him feel better and he imperceptibly moves closer to him.

“I’m leaving,” Derek says, a foot on the floor, already.

“Nononono!” Stiles yelps, throwing his whole body against Derek’s in an attempt to keep him there.

His skin feels like pure heaven and Stiles latches onto it. It almost burns him he’s so cold, but it’s too late, it’s like he’s become a needy baby koala. Merely thinking about slinking back into his cold space of the bed makes him want to cry. He clings tighter.

Derek hovers stiffly in this weird “I don’t know what to do with my body” position, clearly undecided. Finally, he wrenches Stiles’s hand away from around his ribs long enough to slide back under the sheets. Stiles tucks his face against the ball of Derek’s shoulder, hiding his humiliation. Here he is, reduced to beg Derek fucking Hale for cuddles.

Derek grabs the hem of the covers and sweeps it over their heads, recreating the tent-like effect Stiles enjoyed earlier with Scott and Lydia. Soon, the heat of Derek’s body gets trapped underneath and Stiles sighs in relief. His shivers are spacing out and their intensity subdues.

“Thanks,” he mumbles against Derek’s arm.

Derek grunts. “You’re really cold,” he says after a short beat of silence.

Stiles snorts. “Duh. Did you think I was being a big baby about the whole thing or what?”

“You’ve been known to greatly exaggerate things,” Derek defends himself through clenched teeth.

“You’re such a dick.”

“I’d take you seriously if you weren’t hugging me.”

Stiles squawks, jerking his head back a little to stare at Derek. “I am not-- _hugging_ you!” Hugs are nice and comfy. This is not nice and not nearly as comfy as when Scott was here.

Derek keeps his head still but throws him a sideways look. “I am not,” Stiles insists, tucking his frozen feet under Derek’s legs.

Derek hisses slightly. “Stiles,” he says, and it sounds like a curse.

“You deserved that.”

“Your response to being accused of hugging me is to hug me more?” Derek groans.

Stiles squirms against his side, trying to get as much of his numb skin as he can in contact with Derek’s. He chooses to ignore Derek’s very pertinent quip because he hates being wrong.

Derek’s skin is smooth, like silk. Stiles supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, as Derek is a werewolf, and every little cut or imperfection must heal immediately. He feels the rise and fall of Derek’s chest against the arm he has draped across him. Their little greenhouse-like space fills up with Derek’s scent. It’s earthy and a little spicy, like strong-flavored honey. He suddenly feels flushed and uncomfortable. Derek’s skin is slowly coating itself with a thin layer of sweat. He’s clearly too hot already, whereas Stiles is barely warming up. Stiles’s fingers twitch nervously against the place just under Derek’s ribs; his heartbeat goes up.

“What now,” Derek sighs, aggravated. The gust of his breath pools around Stiles’s face.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says truthfully, a little confused by his own body’s reaction.

“Is it getting worse?”

“If I were getting colder my heartbeat would slow down, not--ratchet up,” Stiles snaps back, irrationally resentful.

“Well, your body’s just pumping more blood now that you’re getting warmer,” Derek says with a dismissive shrug; Stiles moves with him.

This explanation doesn’t make sense. Stiles knows it’s not that at all.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says anyway.

 

*

 

It’s only a few minutes of uncomfortable silence before Derek’s phone buzzes. One second later, Stiles’s makes a little sound to announce an incoming text. They both fumble a little, bumping into each other, to find their phone and read the texts, lying on their backs side to side.

“It’s Isaac,” Derek says at the same time Stiles declares, “It’s Scott.”

“They managed to track it down, they’re in pursuit,” Stiles relays the message with a snort, amused by the police speak.

“Isaac says I should smother you with a pillow and be done with it,” Derek says with an eyebrow arched at his too-bright phone screen.

Stiles scowls and hits Derek’s stomach with the back of his hand in retaliation, unsure of whether Derek is making it up or not. He feels his muscles bunch up against the unexpected touch.

Derek clears his throat and manages to make it sound like a threat. “He also says the sprite looks pretty harmless and not to worry.”

“Tell him to go fuck himself with a--”

“You will _not_ finish that sentence.”

“You’re Isaac’s alpha, I should totally make you pay for this. You’re his replacement until he gets here,” Stiles says before launching himself at Derek.

He shoves his icy hands against Derek’s neck, who ducks his chin reflexively, accidentally trapping them under it, like Stiles expected he would. He smirks. Derek manages to pry one hand away from him with a hilarious sort of yelp, but as he grips his other hand, Stiles is already tucking the newly freed one in Derek’s armpit.

Derek groans and struggles halfheartedly. He turns on his side and traps both of Stiles’s hands in his, squeezing hard to make Stiles stop trying to struggle and in the same movement, tugs them toward his chest, making Stiles slide a few inches closer, almost face-planting into his chest.

At this point, Stiles is panting from the mini-fight, feeling pleasantly warm and tingly as his blood rushes through his limbs. He’s on his side, facing Derek, and acutely aware of how they’re still somewhat holding hands, now.

Stiles tugs experimentally to see if Derek will give; he tightens his grip immediately in response.

“You’re such a child,” Stiles says--only, he doesn’t say it normally. His voice has dropped to a whisper of its own accord. Stiles swallows.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Oh my God, I rest my case,” Stiles mutters.

Stiles wiggles his fingers against Derek’s, and he absurdly hopes he won’t let go too soon, because they’re just getting a little warmer and--it’s nice… and comfy. Derek loosens his grip minutely and Stiles gets more room to stretch his fingers. They catch against Derek’s and before either of them know it, Derek is rubbing his hands gently, with a set goal, making the blood flow more easily. Stiles's breath hitches and he’s mesmerized by the sight of their clasped hands.

So yeah, maybe Stiles is being hand-hugged or something.

Derek is watching him, he can sense it, but it feels uncomfortable for him to look back. This is a very unusual hug. So Stiles thinks, fuck it, and shuffles closer, nuzzling his face in Derek’s neck, and tangles his legs with him, effectively shielding his eyes from Derek’s everything.

“I don’t wanna hear _one_ word,” Stiles grits out between his teeth. His words are coming out a bit jumbled and muffled against Derek’s warm skin.

Their position is pretty much the same as how Scott and Stiles had arranged themselves earlier. And yet somehow, Stiles can’t help but feel it’s very different.

Derek obeys and stays silent. He throws an arm around him, gently settling it at the center of his back. It’s like liquid heat pouring down against his spine. Stiles can’t help the needy sigh that escapes his lips. It dampens the spot where he’s breathing against the hollow of Derek’s neck.

Stiles is so tense that he’s convinced it will be next to impossible for him to fall asleep. Especially next to Derek. It drives Stiles nuts to realize he’s not all rugged, jagged edges, but can be soft, pliant and soothing. The bastard has turned the original not-hug into a plain hug, into a _cuddle fest_. And Stiles is letting him do it. He’s actively _participating_ in it.

Still, Stiles doesn’t relax, and Derek sweeps his hand up and down along his spine. To help. Except it doesn’t help at all. Stiles presses his lips even further against the crook of Derek’s neck, his mouth slightly parted to let in a little more air. The petting abruptly stops.

Maybe Derek fell asleep? Stiles leaves his hiding spot against Derek’s throat and lifts his head up a little to see what’s going on, and comes face to face with Derek, staring at him with wide eyes. Stiles swallows hard, a smart-ass comment on the tip of his tongue, when Derek closes the very short distance between them and presses his lips lightly against the corner of his mouth.

Stiles keeps his eyes open, absolutely bewildered. Almost automatically, he turns his head to the left so that their lips align perfectly. Derek exhales sharply against him and Stiles finally closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of Derek’s lips slowly dragging against his. Derek parts his mouth tentatively, the space between his lips just wide enough for Stiles’s bottom lip to fit. Stiles makes a little involuntary noise from the back of his throat and Derek closes his lips around his. His hands resume their sweeping motion against his back in at a torturously slow pace; Stiles’s own hands twitch against Derek’s damp chest.

The kiss is slowly but surely getting wetter. Stiles’s upper lip keeps catching Derek’s stubble, and he reflexively licks his lips to ease the touch, a quick swipe of tongue that inevitably catches against the swell of Derek’s mouth.

Derek returns the accidental hint of tongue without deepening the kiss, and Stiles melts against him, sucking and nibbling at whatever is in his way as he opens his mouth against Derek’s.

Faint smacking sounds can be heard each time they part and dive in again for another kiss. Stiles has never felt so calm in his entire life.

He distantly muses that Derek is like one of these stupid ice creams that take forever to melt, but whose heart reveals itself to be--after a lot of grunting and spoon-stabbing--liquid chocolate or strawberry coulis or something similarly good. Fuck.

Stiles must be more exhausted that he feels, because it’s with that ridiculous image in mind that he feels himself sink into oblivion. The kiss slows down to feather light touches; his heartbeat matches Derek’s within fifteen minutes.

 

*

 

Stiles wakes up to Derek slipping out of bed. Still fuzzy with sleep, he makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a whine. He’s too tired and comfy to care. The whine is like a question and an order rolled up in one childish sound: _where are you going?_ , and _get your ass back in here_.

Derek shushes him and tries to unbend Stiles’s fingers from where they closed themselves--of their own volition!--around his wrist.

“I’m coming back. Go back to sleep,” he whispers, trailing his hands up and down Stiles’s arm, once, twice, three times before Stiles melts into the touch and loosens his hold on his wrist.

Stiles falls back asleep, already forgetting why he woke up in the first place.

 

*

 

“Hey, buddy,” Scott’s voice says, a hand clapping him gently on the back. “Wake up, you’re saved.”

Stiles blearily opens his eyes, and stifles a yawn. Scott is kneeling under the blankets. “My hero,” Stiles says.

Scott snorts. “The little creature is waiting for us at Deaton’s--with Lydia. Allison caught it. You’re gonna have to get out of under there so it can lift off the spell or whatever.”

“No,” Stiles says immediately. Then, groaning, he relents, “Fine! But I’m taking these with me.” He grips the two fluffiest blankets he sees and shakes them a little.

“I’ll drive,” Scott says with a small smile. “Derek can sit with you in the back.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving Stiles to fight a mild wave of panic.

The memories of what has happened after Derek willingly--although begrudgingly--shared his body heat with him, washes over him coolly and he suppresses a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. He’s left with an odd sensation behind his lungs and swallows down a hysterical laugh.

Stiffly, he gathers a couple of blankets around him after putting Isaac’s sweater back on. He drags his feet down the stairs, with his fluffy protective gear trailing on the steps behind him, like the most ridiculous royal cape ever.

He moodily drops his body in the backseat of the car, where Derek is already sitting, staring straight-ahead.

Scott settles in the driver’s seat. “Derek, we talked about this,” he says in a patronizing tone, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

Oh, the things Stiles would give to know how _that_ conversation went down. Derek snaps his eyes up to meet Scott’s in the mirror and Stiles winces at Derek’s ‘screaming bloody murder’ expression. Nevertheless, Derek scoots over to Stiles and gingerly puts an arm around him.

“That’s the spirit!” Scott chirps, driving away.

 

*

 

“So you’re responsible for this?” Stiles says, trying to look as righteous and awe-inspiring as is possible when cocooned in a rainbow blanket.

The little blue creature--the sprite, Deaton insisted--cowers slightly. Maybe it’s impressed by flashy colors. It’s barely reaching Stiles’s knee in height. Its consistency falters momentarily and changes from solid ice to blubbery water seamlessly. It makes a pathetic chipping sound and Lydia punches Stiles lightly on the shoulder.

“Don’t be mean!”

“It looks like a Pokémon, doesn’t it, Stiles?” Scott asks excitedly.

Deaton takes a step forward and doesn’t let Scott’s blinding smile deter him. “You can’t keep him.”

“Is it a him?” Scott asks, even more excitedly. “How can you tell? Can you ask what his name is?”

“Can we get a move on?” Derek interrupts, prowling near the doorway, walking back and forth in front of it like an angry cat. “Get him to lift the spell-- _curse_ \--what _ever_.”

The sprite makes a soft gurgling sound and plants itself at Lydia’s feet. Her eyes widen slightly.

“Oh yeah, he’s kind of in love with me,” she says, shrugging. “I don’t know what he wants.”

“Your powers,” Deaton says ominously.

Stiles glowers at him. “Stop with the dramatic mystery crap, man. My dick’s going to fall off if you don’t tell us something useful for once.”

Allison stifles a snort behind her hand, and Lydia shushes him. Derek has closed his eyes again, probably searching for his long lost zen.

“You exude an aura of power and magic,” Deaton explains to Lydia. “The sprite’s probably attracted to that. If you give him something, I’m sure he’ll undo whatever he did to Stiles.”

“What do you mean, give him something?” Allison asks, gripping Lydia’s hand protectively.

“Nothing vital. But it has to be a part of her,” Deaton replies calmly.

Allison is already lifting a very sharp knife next to Lydia’s face, and with her accord--a sharp and determined nod--she swiftly cuts a tuft of her long red hair. Lydia winces when Allison hands it to her, but immediately crouches down to offer it to the sprite.

He makes what is undoubtedly a delighted sound, halfway between a squeal and a trill, like a dolphin, and promptly snatches the hair out her grasp. Lydia hisses when he touches her, a faint shudder coursing through her as the cold hits her.

Everybody gasps when he wastes no time before eating the tuft of hair, swallowing it whole, making another happy sound. Isaac subtly tries to hide his tall frame behind Derek and Scott gapes.

“It’s glowing!” he exclaims, and again, Stiles thinks he sounds way too excited than strictly appropriate.

The sprite glows white, blinding them, until his body’s almost transparent, when suddenly, he snaps his chubby icy fingers and Stiles is--again--thrown back on his ass. The blankets cushion his fall. The blinding white light disappears and so does the sprite, in a cloud of steam.

Derek is the first to reach him and helps him up. “He must really hate your face,” he mutters, absently dusting imaginary dirt off Stiles’s blankets.

“It hurts my soul to admit it, but I think you’re right and I totally agree with you,” Stiles grits out. “ _Twice_! He’s done this shit to me twice! Does magic always knock you over on your ass? Is it a requisite for it to work, or what?” he adds for the rest of the room, all looking at him with round eyes.

“He’d be a powerful Pokémon,” Isaac says, smirking at Scott.

Scott nods, snapping out of his trance. “Yeah, oh my God.”

“Is he cured?” Lydia says, clicking her tongue at them, staring at Deaton.

“Yes,” he replies simply.

“He’s still cold,” Derek argues, rubbing Stiles’s back aggressively. “He’s shivering.”

“Yes, it’ll take a few hours to wear off. The only difference is now, he can actually regulate his temperature normally. You’ll be fine,” he says, nodding at Stiles.

“You’re all welcome,” Lydia says primly. She narrows her eyes at Stiles. “You’re paying for my next haircut, loser.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Don’t think calling me names is gonna make me forget how worried and concerned about me you were.”

 

*

 

They’re all on the clinic parking lot and Stiles feels like a hot potato everybody’s trying to get rid of. Except right now he’s a very cold potato. Isaac stares intently at him and whispers something in Derek’s ear that Stiles can’t quite catch. Derek’s eyes jump to him and Stiles averts his gaze, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’ll stay with him,” Derek says, shrugging.

“I’m sure you will,” Isaac mutters, hands in his pockets, nonchalant as ever.

Everybody stares at him--except Derek, who glares--and Isaac blushes a little, uneasy with all the attention. “I didn’t say anything,” he lies.

“Right, well,” Lydia cuts in, looping an arm around Allison’s. “Allison and I are going to the movies, as it was planned before any supernatural creature showed up here.”

She tugs Allison away before any of them can argue. “See you later,” Allison calls back, smiling widely.

It’s just Isaac, Derek, Scott and Stiles now.

“Why would you stay with him?” Scott finally asks, after a pregnant pause.

Derek shrugs, his fingers clenching and unclenching, before he gives up entirely and stuffs them roughly in his pockets. Stiles is fascinated.

“Your mom said we had to be home before nine,” Isaac tells Scott, glancing at Stiles, then at Derek, like asking for permission--which Stiles finds terribly wrong.

“Yeah, I know,” Scott says, frowning. He turns toward his mom’s car, parked behind them, pondering his options. “So, Stiles? Do you wanna come with? Or--?” He doesn’t look at Derek as he asks, only at Stiles, which is admirable.

Stiles shivers, tightening his hold around the blankets. He sniffs, stalling for time. He doesn’t even know why he’s hesitating. His mind keeps jumping back to Derek’s warm, slightly sweaty skin, his hands and the curve of his lips when he smirked down at Stiles.

“I’ll stay at Derek’s,” Stiles hears himself say through the rush of blood welling in his ears. He stammers a little, the words tumbling out of his mouth too fast.

He’s convinced he’s never blushed this much before while standing absolutely still. He clears his throat. “Your bed’s not big enough for the three of us,” he tells Scott, tilting his head toward Isaac.

“Uh, okay,” Scott says, finally looking at Derek. “Whatever you say.”

“I’ll text you,” Stiles promises.

Isaac claps his hand on his shoulder, weirdly reassuring, and starts toward Melissa’s car. Scott shuffles his feet on the asphalt, frowning.

“Okay, well…” He takes two steps back to join Isaac, still facing them, before stopping. “Are you sure?” he asks Stiles incredulously.

Derek turns to stride to his own car, rolling his eyes. “Just go already,” he snaps.

For a second Stiles thinks he’s addressing the three of them, that he’s finally telling Stiles to go away too. But he pauses at the door of his car, and lifts an expectant eyebrow at him.

Stiles fumbles a bit with his blankets so they don’t trail on the ground, and stumbles over his own feet in his haste to get to Derek. “Right,” he mutters to himself. “Right, right, right.”

He doesn’t turn back to look at Scott but hears Isaac say, gently, “Come on, he’ll be fine. I promise they won’t kill each other.”

“Wanna bet?” Scott grumbles back.

Isaac laughs brightly. “You’d lose.”

 

*

 

“Your bed is…” Stiles trails off, scrambling for words.

“Right over there,” Derek finishes obnoxiously, pointing at it.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “Ha ha,” he says flatly. “No, I mean. Is it silk? Do you have black silk sheets? Are you even trying _not_ to look like you’re a serial killer?”

“No,” Derek replies flatly, shrugging off his jacket. “Now get in it.”

Stiles doesn’t like the authoritative edge in his voice; he stays right where he is. Derek has his back to him so it takes him a few seconds to realize Stiles hasn’t moved. He rolls his eyes.

“Fine, just freeze to death.”

“You could also say please.”

“I’m the one doing you a favor, you should ask me to get in my bed. Politely.”

Stiles keeps a straight face but something is blooming in his chest.

“You were the one to suggest I should stay with you,” Stiles reminds him, curling his cold toes in his shoes.

“You didn’t put up that much of a fight,” Derek shoots back, taking a step forward.

Stiles shrugs and looks away, faking disinterest. “You’re the biggest werewolf I know, it’s just science. You produce more heat.”

“Are you sure? Isaac told me you didn’t let him call Boyd. He’s definitely bigger than I am,” Derek says, taking another step toward him.

Stiles huffs, still looking at a spot somewhere on his left. “I didn’t know you cared about size, Derek,” he says sweetly.

Derek groans, and Stiles smiles at him in a way that he knows is completely infuriating, because he loves winning verbal fights--against Derek the most.

“Do you?” Derek asks, and his voice drops low.

Stiles has been busy throwing flowers at himself and his incredible wit and he falters. He glances back at Derek for the first time since he looked away. “What?”

“Do you care?” Derek clarifies. “About size?”

The weird thing that has been growing in Stiles’s chest since God knows when, expands even more and it feels like a black hole has taken residence in his belly. He feels himself color slightly.

Fuck! He was winning this thing, damn it.

“Size of the bed? I--yeah, sure. I mean! What--what--what are we talking about here?” he stammers, cursing himself for losing composure.

It’s Derek’s turn to smile, showing a hint of teeth. It’s maddening in more ways than one. He takes a final step to reach Stiles’s level and looms over him. Stiles hugs his blankets tighter. Derek’s the same height as him, he should not be able to loom. He ducks his head and Stiles sucks in a breath, thinking he’s going to kiss him. Again.

But Derek does nothing. Stiles tenses up but nothing comes. He relaxes. Derek immediately notices the change in his posture as he lowers his guard and he pushes his hand lightly against Stiles’s chest, making him topple backwards. Stiles ends up sprawled on the bed, and he squawks indignantly.

“Hey!”

“I win.”

Stiles untangles his body from Lydia’s blankets, gathers them in a big ball and throws it lamely in Derek’s direction, who sends everything flying to his right with a casual flick of his hand.

“Ugh!” Stiles grunts, flopping back down on the mattress furiously.

“You’re feeling better,” Derek states, but somehow manages to make it sound like a question.

Stiles takes a minute to marvel at the way he doesn’t tremble and shake because of an imaginary cold. Deaton was right, at least. He’s feeling his limbs, now. He touches the tip of his nose gingerly. Still cold.

Stiles is pretty sure he could go home. He’s not literally freezing to death anymore. He could turn up the heat in his car and draw himself a hot bath and that would be the end of it.

“I’m still sore,” he says instead, rubbing his hands together. “My whole body aches because of the shivers.” He stares at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he’s even doing here. Derek kissing him and Stiles kissing him back feels like a lifetime away, to the point where Stiles is not sure it even happened at all.

Silence stretches comfortably, and Stiles still hasn’t moved from the bed. He can hear Derek puttering around in the kitchen.

“Do you think Boyd would have come, if Isaac had called him instead of you?” he suddenly asks.

The kitchen noises stop abruptly. “Eventually,” Derek replies cautiously. “Dragging Erica with him.”

“He totally would have me do something for him exchange,” Stiles muses aloud.

Another pause. “Yeah.”

“Which begs the question. What’s in it for you?” Stiles asks, finally raising himself on his elbows to look at Derek, now standing at the foot of the bed, a mug of tea in each hand.

“Nothing,” Derek grumbles, setting the two mugs on the nightstand.

“Exactly.”

Derek sits down on the edge of the bed and looks back at Stiles. He rolls his eyes. “Exactly what?”

“You’re doing this because--” Stiles cuts himself off before saying something weird like, “you like me” or “we’re friends”. Both feel wrong and disappointing.

Derek takes off his shoes. “Because?” he prompts, amused once again. But there’s something else there. Stiles can see it. Derek seems genuinely curious. Maybe he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on either.

“Because…” Stiles tries again, sitting up fully, his shoulder brushing Derek’s. “You like hugging and cuddling and maybe you even need it.”

Derek’s smile drops.

“How long since anybody’s hugged you?” Stiles insists, feeling a change in the air. “Not counting today, because you were kinda forced into it.”

Derek stares straight ahead. Stiles doesn’t wait for an answer and scoots back on the bed. He gently tugs him down with him and Derek goes, lets himself be manhandled. The alien in Stiles’s chest, the thing responsible for this big black hole of nothingness in his stomach, grows even larger until Stiles is convinced his heart is going to fucking leap out of his throat and scurry away through the window.

Derek mumbles a halfhearted, “What are you doing?” and Stiles replies, “I’m cold,” as an excuse, because isn’t that what they’re here for? They can both pretend.

Except it’s Stiles who curls his weight over Derek, who makes him tuck his face in his neck and runs a shaky hand through his hair. It’s Derek who makes himself small and lets Stiles drape himself over him like the world’s most annoying blanket.

They stay like this for a long time, and Stiles doesn’t fall asleep. He’s warm now. He’s back to normal. His toes are tucked against Derek’s socks. His fingers are on Derek’s heated skin at the base of his nape and in his hair.

“Thanks,” Stiles whispers after a while, unsure of whether Derek is awake or not.

Derek shifts, looks up at Stiles from where his face was burrowed against his collarbone. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for,” Derek says in a voice hovering between a whisper and murmur.

Stiles is about to explain to him in great detail the why, the who, when and the how when Derek closes the distance between them and kisses him.

It takes him by surprise. Again. But this time he’s not on the verge of sleep, and everything is slightly sharper. His eyes stay open at first, wide and panicked, but he returns the kiss, doesn’t shy away from it, presses back against Derek. He takes it in stride. Derek makes a little muffled sound and that’s it, the black hole inside Stiles has completely engulfed him, he’s pretty sure he’s levitating in space; Derek’s lips are so soft, so very, very soft.

It’d be easy to open up his mouth and swipe the tip of his tongue against them to be really, very, super sure of that. So he does. It is confirmed. Super extra soft lips. His eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

Stiles distantly registers Derek’s hand steadily sweeping up his back. His own hands are on both sides of Derek’s neck, and he can feel his pulse there.

Derek presses closer to him and in the same movement, catches Stiles’s upper lip between his own, just as Stiles is about to lick across the seam again, for science. Stiles hums, unable to help himself because Derek tastes sweet, just like honey and warm tea.

Stiles has only ever kissed two people in his life, one of whom was a guy. It was Scott. For practice. They didn’t have body hair at that time. They were twelve. So Stiles grins through the kiss when his thumbs catch Derek’s stubble and when his lips trail over it. Derek only makes voiceless sounds, little exhalations and gasps, that curl around Stiles’s tongue and make his whole body thrum with need.

Once again, Stiles finds that most of his movements are set on automatic. He doesn’t consciously decide to trail his fingers under the hem of Derek’s Henley, but hey, here they are. He doesn’t willingly choose to tangle his hand in Derek’s hair, but hey, that’s what’s happening apparently. So when his hand travels down Derek’s neck, rounding on his throat, and keeps going lower, past the planes and swells of his chest and stomach, when it starts unbuttoning his jeans and dives in to cup him through his underwear, Derek breaks the kiss and gasps and Stiles makes a surprised noise right along with him, because hey, look at what his hand is doing.

“My hand is _in your pants_ ,” Stiles breathes out, absolutely dumbfounded.

Derek stays silent for a long time, but neither of them moves away and Stiles can feel a  twitch against his fingers. “I really don’t know what to say to that,” Derek finally mutters.

Stiles knows he’s staring like a dumbass, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to miss anything.

“Okay, I know it’s going to sound crazy…” Stiles pauses to swallow, acutely aware of how he’s still basically groping Derek. “But I think I want to have sex--with you,” he finishes, wide-eyed and stunned.

Derek’s eyebrows go up and he tilts his head to the side. Stiles is one hundred percent sure Derek is going to say something infuriating. He opens his mouth to reply but Stiles launches himself at him before the first vowel can even be properly formed, and he swallows the rest of the sentence, curling his tongue greedily to coax Derek into doing the same.

It takes Stiles a full minute to remember where his other hand is and he resumes his mission of trying to get Derek out his clothes. They’re forced to stop kissing eventually, grunting and panting because undressing while lying down on one another is way more difficult than the movies made Stiles believe. He bursts out laughing when Derek’s top gets caught around his head and Stiles’s pants bunch up around his ankles.

“Oh my God, I still have my shoes on!” he pants, between a chuckle and the next.

Derek snorts, frees himself from his clothed prison and yanks Stiles’s sneakers off his feet, sliding the pants off him completely. Stiles is still laughing breathlessly, happy and nervous and feeling anything but sexy. Derek has a small smile on his lips, Stiles traces the edge of it with his thumb. His laughter stops brutally when Derek curls a hand under the waistband of his underwear and grabs his ass, elbow pressing against his thigh, making him hitch it up over Derek’s hip.

Derek is completely naked, chest flush against him, one thigh between the V of Stiles’s legs. He’s staring straight at him and Stiles can’t look away, cupping his face between his palms, rubbing his thumbs under his jaw, across his eyebrows, against the shell of his ears. Stiles could get used to this. Being taken care of, and taking care of someone. Someone like Derek.

So Stiles pushes lightly at Derek’s chest to get him to lift his weight a little, and uses the space to clumsily get rid of his boxer briefs himself. Stiles takes deep breaths when Derek lowers himself back down, because there is nothing between them anymore and he’s pretty certain his cock is leaking steadily--because pressure. Pressure everywhere. Derek is deliciously heavy above him, adding a new layer of sensations when he starts moving his hips against Stiles’s in tiny circles.

Stiles grunts, tightening his hold on Derek’s neck with his right hand and on his biceps with the left one. His eyes keep going back and forth between the place where they lower-bodies meet, even if from this angle he can’t see much besides the jump of Derek’s abdominal muscles, and Derek’s mouth, darker than usual and shiny, harsh little sounds punched out of him every other second.

Stiles makes a surprised sound when his cock brushes against Derek’s, and he rocks with him, rolling his hips to meet Derek’s movements, seeking the friction again. Stiles tugs Derek’s neck down so he can nibble at his lips, trailing his tongue along his jaw, and down against the tendon of his neck, biting at it lightly. Derek’s hips stutter and he hums in Stiles’s ear, dropping his forehead against the mattress next to Stiles’s head.

He’s busy sucking the skin of Derek’s neck into his mouth when Derek slowly begins to slide down, kissing his way down his body. Stiles feels the urge to stretch like a cat, body straining under the attention. Derek’s stubble tickles his skin and he feels laughter bubbling up at his lips again. Derek looks up at him with a smirk, knowing and smug.

“Shut up, I-- _holy God_ ,” Stiles chokes on his own words as Derek’s circles his fingers around him and sucks the very tip of his length into his mouth.

He makes another weak sound, that fades out into a rough exhale at the end, and tries really hard not to come right here and then. All he can feel is heat. His entire world becomes Derek’s mouth, Derek’s lips and Derek’s tongue. He tentatively threads his fingers in Derek’s hair, afraid to apply any pressure, and generally just making a mess of it, making it stick out at odd angles.

What he can’t help though, is the way he carefully thrusts up into the tightness of Derek’s mouth. Derek moves with him, one arm braced across his stomach. He quickly figures out the little things that make Stiles curse and or keen pathetically. He does the thing with the tip of his tongue under the head of his cock a lot more after Stiles arches off the bed.

When it becomes almost unbearable, Stiles sucks in a huge breath and pushes at Derek shoulder to make him pull off. Derek doesn’t move right away, he mouths at Stiles’s balls for a few terrible seconds before pulling away and saving Stiles from coming embarrassingly quickly.

Stiles is breathing heavily, his skin feels sticky and sweaty. Derek crawls back up over him and licks a long stripe of skin from the base of his neck to his cheek; Stiles feels himself heat up even more, if possible. He laughs nervously.

“Blowjobs are not overrated, let me tell you,” Stiles mumbles against the ball of Derek’s shoulder before pushing at it to make him roll over.

Derek goes obligingly, looking up at him with hungry eyes. Stiles throws a leg over him to straddle the top of his thighs and straightens up with both of his hands on Derek’s chest. Derek’s cock is hard and flushed with blood, curving back slightly. Stiles gives in to the sudden urge he has to touch it; Derek’s mouth parts but no sound comes out.

Stiles starts jerking his hand up and down slowly, appreciating the length and girth of it. He rubs the pad of his thumb at the slit and he bites his lower lip when he’s rewarded with a small bead of pre-come. Derek’s fingers twitch where they’re clutching the back of Stiles’s neck. Stiles reaches for them with one hand, prying them away from his skin and guiding them back down above Derek’s head. Stiles leans forward a little, still stroking his cock steadily, squeezing both of Derek’s hands when he tries to break free, putting half of his weight on it. Derek’s eyes widen and he swallows as he stops struggling. Stiles rewards him by picking up the pace, tightening his grip.

“Oh, shit,” Derek breathes out, scrunching his eyes shut.

Stiles licks his lips again, swallowing compulsively. Even with the weight of Stiles on him, Derek still manages to jostle him each time he thrusts up into the wet circle of Stiles’s fingers. Stiles watches with rapt attention the slow drag of Derek’s teeth on his bottom lip as he muffles his moans, the muscles of his trapped arms jumping, folded behind his head obediently, the delicious movement of his Adam’s apple as it bobs up and down.

Stiles forgets his nervousness and enjoys the slight rush of power he feels at having Derek under him, utterly defenseless and yet trusting, giving himself away with his eyes closed. Literally.

Stiles bows his back and leans forward even more, aligning himself perfectly so he can stroke himself and Derek at the same time. It’s right about that moment that Derek starts making these sounds, like he’s in pain. Delicious, delicious pain. Stiles is pretty sure he’s dying himself, as all his breath leaves his lungs at once. He knows his orgasm is only a second away--frankly he’s surprised he’s even lasted that long. The arm holding Derek’s hands on the mattress shakes and Stiles slumps forward, blindly seeking Derek’s taut neck with his mouth. He comes with a breathy moan, biting down. His come lands in thick stripes on Derek’s cock and stomach.

Derek keens, desperately trying to catch up with Stiles, hips moving relentlessly whereas Stiles is slowly coming down from his height, enjoying the last sparks of his pleasure dying away, breaths coming out short and harsh, muscles twitching uncontrollably until he’s entirely spent.

He lets go of his cock and ignores the swimming in his head to quickly scramble down Derek’s body and without thinking too much about it, swallows the tip of Derek’s length. He doesn’t go very deep, his hand still working to bring Derek off, but he mouths at it, licking along the veins, tonguing the slit, and humming around it.

Derek seizes up, and Stiles looks up at his face just in time to see his mouth fall open in a silent shout. Stiles blinks when some of his come splashes on his cheek. He watches Derek take in huge lungfuls of breath, gingerly unfolding his arms, and dropping them back down to haul Stiles up.

They’re sticky and sweaty but Derek kisses him anyway after licking the come off Stiles’s face. Stiles groans into his mouth, a little disturbed at how turned on he still is.

They silently settle back side by side on the bed. Stiles is still trying to decide whether he should freak out or not.

“You should text Scott,” Derek finally says, staring absently at the ceiling.

Stiles wants to be annoyed but instead he blurts out, “You should never mention Scott again after sex.”

Derek twists his neck to look at him. Stiles eyes him warily from the corner of his eye.

“So what now?” he asks. Stiles can’t help but hear the hint of shyness underneath the thick tone of annoyance.

“Now… I’m going to text Scott--thanks for reminding me, dude--and you’re going to take a shower.”

“No, I meant--”

“Yeah, I know what you meant. But you’re just making it more awkward, so shut up and go take a shower.”

Derek glares at him for a long time before slowly rising up from the bed, like every instinct in his body is yelling at him not to obey a direct order. Stiles averts his eyes when he remembers how very naked they both are. He fights a shiver and automatically reaches for Derek, keeping him from taking another step from the bed.

Derek’s eyebrow twitch up, surprised and impatient. He looks at Stiles’s hand, closed around his wrist, and back at Stiles’s face, his jaw ticking.

“Changed my mind,” Stiles says in a rush, looking everywhere but at Derek’s body. “Come back.”

Derek sighs loudly, lips twisted in a downturned shape.

“I might get cold,” Stiles jokes wryly, pulling at Derek’s wrist.

Surprisingly, Derek complies, sliding back in bed while Stiles throws the largest of Lydia’s blankets over them. Stiles doesn’t let go of Derek’s wrist and uses his grip to tug him closer, until they’re facing each other, chest pressed together.

Derek keeps his eyes down, his whole demeanor screaming uncertainty. Stiles swallows past his own awkwardness and he noses along Derek’s cheek, nudging Derek’s lips to his own. It takes a record time of three seconds for Derek to let out a little contented sigh, and then they’re kissing again. 

 

 

*Bonus round!*

 

“He’s not answering his phone,” Scott says, frowning. “You owe me twenty bucks. Derek did kill him.”

Isaac snorts. “You’re looking at it the wrong way.”

“Stiles said he’d text me. It’s been hours.” Scott paces back and forth in front of his bedroom door. Isaac, sprawled in the comfy chair next to the bed, tries not let Scott’s anxiety get to him.

“Listen, I didn’t want to say anything, but...” He sighs.

Scott stops in his tracks and turns to fully face Isaac. He remains silent, urging Isaac to tell him more with the sheer intensity of his eyes.

Isaac clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable under all this focused attention.

“I don’t know how to break this to you, but Derek is worse than a five year old when it comes to dealing with a crush.”

Scott frowns, eyes dancing around the room, obviously trying to make sense of the words.

“Ever had a crush?” Isaac asks, slowly but surely working up to the big reveal.

“As a kid?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess.”

“How did you act around them?”

Scott’s frown deepens. Fuck it, Isaac isn’t that patient.

“Scott, seriously. What I’m getting at is that it’s universally acknowledged that when you kinda like someone and you don’t want to admit it, or you don’t want it to happen, or… you don’t want anybody to _notice_ , you’re--” Isaac says slowly, standing up from the chair, “I don’t know… purposefully mean?”

Scott says nothing, staring at something on his left.

“Doesn’t that sound an awful lot like Stiles and Derek to you?” Isaac goes on, starting to get bored. He’d like to get back to reading comics curled up comfortably in Scott’s bed.

“It’s--hold on. You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”

“If you think I’m saying Derek totally tapped that tonight, then yes. Can we order some pizza now?”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted it to be sort of canon compliant but my brain apparently refused to acknowledge Boyd and Erica's death because I kept mentioning them accidentally, so in the end I gave up. So they're alive but don't appear in this fic because DENIAL or something.
> 
> Also, I totally had the idea of Lydia cutting her hair for the sprite after remembering that scene from Howl's Moving Castle, so if you were wondering why it sounded familiar, it's from there!
> 
> This is [me](http://yourunwiththewolves.tumblr.com).


End file.
